


help me fill this hole in my soul

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2018 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce is a good dad, Caretaking, Cuddles, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Near Drowning, Nightmares, Pneumonia, Robin Dick, Sickfic, Trauma, Vomiting, set a few months after Dick moves into the manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 19:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Dick nearly drowns on patrol one night. He's fine, except that he really isn't. Alfred and Bruce take care of him when he gets sick and let him know that even though his parents are gone he isn't alone.





	help me fill this hole in my soul

**Author's Note:**

> After a couple of weeks of wanting to tear my hair out in frustration, this fic is finally done. Thanks so much to Fuyu for helping me figure some stuff out and checking the characterisation :) And to Nova for always listening to me whinge <3
> 
> This fills the "wild card" square on my hurt/comfort bingo card with "pneumonia".
> 
> Title inspired by 'Drown' by Bring Me The Horizon.

**** Dick doesn’t scream. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t cry.

All those things beat against his chest and his mind, but he doesn’t make any sound. Wind whistles through his ears, catching his cape, whipping him around as he tumbles through the air. Panic has seized his limbs, his mind, and he can’t remember any of the things he should do to get himself out of this situation.

He’s just falling.

Falling…

Falling…

(Fallen.)

—

The world is muffled. Quiet, except for a roaring sound that seems to come from everywhere. It tugs at Dick, pulling him this way and that like a puppet on strings.

Dick’s chest is burning. Everything aches. He can’t breathe.

A memory sears through his mind like glitter in the darkness. His mom, hands under his armpits, holding him up in the shallow water of a creek. He’d been three, maybe four, little feet kicking furiously, arms splashing as he pretended he was really swimming by himself. His dad, laughing from the bank, taking pictures with a disposable Kodak.

“Are you ready, little Robin?” his mom had asked. Dick had nodded and her hands had been gone and he’d been kicking and splashing and sinking, sinking, sinking.

Only for a second though, before his mom had lifted him back up, holding him against her chest, keeping him afloat in the cool water.

She’s not here now and Dick is drowning.

His feet hit something and he pushes off it, arms pulling him through the water, hoping he’s going up. It’s dark and murky. The lenses in his mask must have cracked because water is stinging at his eyes.

It’s cold.

Dick’s body is so heavy.

He doesn’t know which way is up.

—

A sharp pull and his head breaks the surface. Gasping and coughing. Dick finds himself on hands and knees, fingers curling in the frigid mud of the river bank. 

Hands gather his cape and rub his back while he coughs and throws up water. When he can breathe again, they pull him back against a hard chest.

“I’ve got you,” Bruce murmurs beside his ear. “I’ve got you, Dick, you’re okay.”

Dick doesn’t feel okay. His mind is still stuck in the river, in the free fall. His cheeks are numb with cold. Tears carve burning paths down frozen skin and drip onto the arms wrapped tightly around him.

—

“I’m fine,” Dick says through chattering teeth. He can’t stop shaking, even with the car’s heating on high and Batman’s cape around his shoulders. The outer layers of his wet Robin suit are balled up at his feet. “I’m fine, B. I’m fine.”

His heart is racing painfully and he presses his hand to his chest. It feels like there’s a vice around his lungs, stopping them from expanding fully. He can’t take a full breath. Drops of water are sliding down the back of his neck. The rumble of the engine sounds like wind rushing through his ears. He’s not fine, but if he says it enough maybe he’ll start to believe it himself.

The Batmobile skids around a corner. Bruce reaches over and squeezes Dick’s knee. “Take a deep breath, chum.”

Dick tries. It makes him cough, chest aching and throat burning. His stomach feels cold and slimy, churning with the river water he’d swallowed. He presses his forehead to his knees, drawn up to his chest, arms around them like he can trap his own body heat in.

Bruce’s hand rests, just for a moment, on the top of Dick’s damp curls. “It’s okay. We’re almost home.”

—

A blanket is added over the top of the cape because Dick refuses to let it go. Bruce tells Alfred what happened in brusque details, some Dick didn’t even know himself, like how far he fell and how long he was underwater. Alfred nods while he takes Dick’s temperature and feels his pulse with warm fingers and listens to his lungs. He’s calm, methodical.

Dick still can’t stop shivering. He wonders whether he’ll ever be warm again. 

“Mild hypothermia,” Alfred says. “A warm drink and some time in front of the fire in the study should have you feeling better in no time, Master Dick.”

Dick smiles because that’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what he always does. Smiles and laughs and... it’s not an act, he’s happy. Right? Yes. Usually. Why is it suddenly so hard?

“Thanks, Alfie.” The words warble through chattering teeth. 

Dick wraps his arms around himself. The chill in his bones feels ancient, like a dormant kraken awoken. It weighs down his limbs, makes his movements stiff and slow. His shivers are its earth-shattering laughter. Laughter at his pain. Laughter at his misery.

There is a second, less than a second, when Dick slides off the gurney and it feels like his feet are never going to hit the floor. Alfred’s hand on his arm steadies him, keeps him upright, keeps him from plummeting through the stone and earth to whatever hell lies below.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls.

“I can walk,” Dick says.

Bruce carries him anyway.

—

The mug is hot between his hands, frozen fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic while the hot cocoa inside sloshes every time a more violent shiver wracks his body. He takes a cautious sip and heat burns down his chest.

Flames are dancing in the hearth in front of him, warmth reaching out to lick at Dick’s frozen limbs. He remembers bonfires in the circus, singing, dancing, laughing as sparks burst in the darkness. Crawling onto his mom or dad’s lap, even after he got too big for it to really be comfortable, and surrendering to the drowsiness of warmth and love. 

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asks. He sits beside Dick, on the floor with one leg stretched out.

Dick shrugs, the blanket around his shoulders slips down a little on that side. He surrendered Batman’s cape when Bruce carried him upstairs to the Manor but he misses the layer keenly now. It’s not about the warmth, the fire is warm enough. It’s about the cape.

He remembers sitting on the steps of his family’s trailer, a coat around his shoulders. Too big, not his own. Not his dad’s, like he used to wrap himself in sometimes, pretending he was bigger and more grown than he was. Not there on that step though. Then Dick had only felt small. Small and alone while the flash of red and blue lights sliced through the night around him.

Bruce’s fingers wrap around his wrist. “Dick?” he says, something sharp beneath the gentleness, like sharks lurking under the crystal blue of a calm sea. 

“I’m okay,” Dick says. The words tickle his throat and he turns his head into his elbow to cough. 

Bruce’s face is pensive in the flickering shadows the fire throws across it. It could almost be another face. Any face, but one in particular, one with more rounded features and lines from laughing not frowning. A face not too far from the one Dick sees in the mirror.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks. He’s looking intently at Dick while Dick stares into the fire. “You’ve been quiet since we got back.”

The fire shifts and groans, the logs falling into each other. Dick says, “I’m just tired.”

Bruce puts an arm around him and Dick leans into the hug. It’s warmth and safety and love. So why does Dick still feel cold inside?

—

He dreams of drowning. Drowning in frigid rapids, in the polluted harbour, in the tepid water of a lazy creek. His mother is always there, his father too, sometimes Bruce as well. He can’t see them clearly through the water, just rippling reds and yellows and blacks. They reach out to him while he struggles, caught in the relentless current, swept further down into the darkness, never able to get to them.

“No! Please!” Dick tries to yell and noxious water rushes into his mouth. It fills his stomach, his lungs, spreading ice to the tips of his toes and his fingers. It solidifies like lead in his chest, dragging him down, down, down.

He wakes coughing, that pressure in his chest not letting up. He bends forward over blankets pooled around his waist. Bruce must have carried him to bed; Dick doesn’t even remember falling asleep. The coughs are deep and painful, leaving him gasping and shaking. The phantom grit and acrid taste of the water feels like it’s stuck to his tongue. He scrapes his teeth across his tongue but it doesn’t go away.

Dick’s stomach lurches. He throws off the covers, stumbles through the dark, socked feet sliding on chilled timber. The bathroom tiles are cold and unforgiving beneath his knees as he drops down in front of the toilet and throws up. His stomach twists and squeezes until it’s rid itself of everything Dick ate yesterday. Then he dry heaves until he starts coughing again. When it’s over he slumps against the vanity, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.

He’d felt okay before he fell asleep in front of the fire. Physically okay, at least. Now he feels awful. He wants Bruce to come check on him, carry him back to bed, tuck him in and stay with him until he feels better. He wants his parents, keenly, in a way he hasn’t in a while.

It feels like someone has driven a knife through Dick’s chest and he can’t tell how much of it is illness and how much is longing. Tears prickle at his eyes. He’s so exhausted from the vomiting and the coughing, and he hadn’t slept well, and the fall and the river are still gripping his heart. Dick sniffs and wipes his eyes with his sleeve, but that just makes the tears spill over. 

“Mom?” Dick whispers, choked voice swallowed by the night.

He cries until he has no tears left, eyes red and swollen, lungs burning, stomach aching. Then Dick picks himself up and goes back to bed. He pulls the covers up to his chin and falls asleep clutching Zitka to his chest.

—

The scrape of metal on metal as the curtains are thrown open wakes Dick hours later. His body is heavy and achy as he rolls over in bed. It feels like he’s hardly slept at all, even though the weak sunlight streaming in suggests it’s almost midday. The decision to keep him home from school must have been made without his input. For once, Dick can’t find it within himself to care.

“Good morning, Master Dick,” Alfred says. “How did you sleep?”

Dick’s throat feels raw and swollen. His voice croaks when he says, “Not good. I don’t feel well, Alfie.”

Alfred’s fingers, warm against his skin last night, are cold against his forehead now. “You weren’t feeling unwell before last night?”

Dick shakes his head. The movement makes him feel slightly dizzy even lying down.

“Hm.” Alfred’s frown deepens when Dick coughs, curling further in on himself around the pain it ignites in his chest. 

“’S probably just the flu,” Dick says. 

“Probably,” Alfred says, and it doesn’t sound quite like agreement, “but if it gets any worse I will be calling Doctor Thompkins. Best not to risk anything more serious with your dip in the river last night.”

A chill rolls over Dick, like it was summoned by the mention of nearly drowning. “Fine,” he agrees. He knows when he doesn’t have a choice. “What time is it?”

“Just past eleven, I thought it best to let you sleep in.”

Dick sits up, but he has to lean back against the headboard when a wave of lightheadedness washes over him, leaving behind the first stages of a pounding headache. His eyes flutter closed and he resists the urge to cradle his head. 

“I guess I should get up,” he says.

Alfred pats his knee. “I think an exception can be made for breakfast in bed today.”

—

It’s Bruce who brings in the breakfast tray, twenty minutes later when Dick is almost dozing off, still sitting up with a pillow shoved behind his back. A bowl of brightly coloured fruit is nestled between a mug of tea and a piece of toast. Bruce places it over Dick’s lap and sits on the edge of the bed.

Dick rubs at scratchy eyes and smiles. “Morning.”

“Alfred says you’re not feeling well,” Bruce says. He does his own check for a fever, fingers gentle against Dick’s temple and cheeks. 

“I’m okay,” Dick says. He picks up a fork and pokes at the cubes of fruit. None of it looks appealing. His stomach feels tight and bubbly. He doesn’t think he’s going to throw up again, but he doesn’t want to risk it either. Bruce is watching him though, so Dick stabs a piece of apple and puts it in his mouth.

“I thought I could keep you company, if you like,” Bruce says. His hand rests on top of Dick’s knee, like it’s the most casual thing in the world to sit here with his sick ward. A month ago, Dick had thought Bruce didn’t even want him. Since then, it’s like Bruce has been trying extra hard to be nice, to be around. 

“Don’t you have to go work?” Dick asks. He eats a grape then sips at the steaming tea. Lemongrass and ginger maybe? It bites at his tongue, curdles in his stomach. Dick pushes the tray away.

“I can work from home.” Bruce frowns at him. “You need to eat, Dick.”

Dick shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You should try a little more, at least. Your body needs energy.”

Dick shakes his head again. He coughs, curled forward, arm tight around his chest because it hurts. It hurts and he feels sick. He just wants to sleep. For a week, a year, eternity. 

“Hn.” Bruce leans forward, like he’s just going to pick up the tray and stand, and then he leans a little further to kiss Dick’s forehead. “Get some rest, chum.”

Dick’s eyes prickle with sudden tears. His mom used to do that when he was sick as well. Kiss his forehead and tuck his hair behind his ears, smile warm as she promised she’d be there when he woke up. Dick presses his face into his pillow. She’ll never be here when he wakes up again.

—

Despite the exhaustion weighing heavy on his eyelids, pressing down on every inch of his body, rest is hard to come by. Dick tosses and turns restlessly. It’s too hot. Where ice had been last night, his veins are now filled with burning lava. He pulls off his long-sleeved pyjama top and flings it across the room.

The air feels thin but he’s sure it isn’t. His lungs probably haven’t actually shrunk either but it feels like they have. Dick tries sitting up and lying on his back, his stomach, curled into a ball. None of the positions he tries make breathing easier.

A tremor runs through him and it’s not the cold this time. It’s that feeling he felt when he slammed into the icy current and didn’t know whether he’d ever come up again. It’s kicking and paddling and not knowing which way is up. It’s falling, falling, falling.

Dick sits up with a gasp. The room tilts and blurs before snapping into focus. The Manor. His bedroom. He must have... Was he dreaming? It felt so real. Icy water rushing into his lungs, a hand reaching through the darkness, black gauntlets and pale flesh calloused from years of gymnastics. 

He’s alone now. That realisation makes something twist in his chest. Or maybe that’s just the nausea, this unpleasant feeling caught in his chest. Dick rubs at his chest. It doesn’t go away. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand so he gulps that down. It’s cold sliding down his oesophagus, makes him cough. 

Dick grimaces at the phlegm coughing brings up. He wipes his hand with a tissue, then shoved a few more in the pockets of his pyjama pants and leaves his room. It suddenly feels too big and empty.

—

Bruce isn’t hard to find. Dick peeks into the study when he hears voices then slips inside quietly when he realises Bruce is only on the phone. The fireplace is lit with flames and Dick moves toward them like a moth drawn to light. Not wanting to interrupt Bruce’s phone call, he tries to stifle another coughing fit as he sinks to his knees on the rug in front of the fire. Suppressing the coughs just makes his chest ache even more though so he gives in, coughing into a tissue then wadding it up and throwing it into the fire. 

Bruce glances in his direction. “Can we put that on the agenda for the next board meeting?” he says into the phone while grabbing the throw blanket off the back of the couch with one hand. He drops it around Dick’s shoulders. 

Dick clutches the edges of the blanket. He lets Bruce’s voice wash over him, clouding the terror that had woken him. He closes his eyes, lays down right there on the floor. 

Sometime later he hears the door open and the clink of china being set down, presumably Alfred bringing Bruce lunch. Dick listens to their quiet conversation. 

“I was going to take this up to Master Dick but I’ll leave it with you. It should help with his fever.”

“Hm.”

“And perhaps the floor isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep…”

The door clicks shut after Alfred leaves. When Bruce picks Dick up to move him to the couch, he instinctively curls his fingers into the soft wool of Bruce’s sweater. 

“Are you awake?” Bruce asks. 

“No,” Dick mumbles. 

Bruce’s exhalation rumbles through his chest like laughter. Dick can feel it as much as he can hear it. “Alright,” he says. “Well when you are, Alfred has some medicine here for you.”

Dick reluctantly lets go of Bruce’s sweater when he’s laid down on the couch. The leather is soft and cool, Dick curls into a ball and Bruce tucks the blanket around him. 

“Bruce?” Dick says. He opens his eyes and lifts his head to look at Bruce, paused a step away from the couch.

“Yes?”

_My mom always said hugs were the best medicine._

There’s a stack of papers threatening to fall off Bruce’s desk, the sandwich Alfred made waiting to be eaten beside an open laptop. He has things to do, he won’t want to cuddle with Dick just because he’s not feeling well. Dick closes his eyes, drops his head back down on a cushion. “Never mind.”

—

Dick lays his head down on the dining table, relishing the feeling of the cool wood against his cheek. He’ll lift it in a second, Alfred won’t be pleased if he comes back and Dick is lying all over the table. He’s just. Really not feeling great.

A cough builds in Dick’s chest and he sits up to cough into a tissue so he doesn’t get germs all over the table. They keep coming, wracking his chest until his lungs burn and his throat hurts. He’s left breathless when the fit is over.

Bruce comes in ahead of Alfred, frowning down at his phone. Probably reading through news reports ahead of the night’s patrol. It’ll just be Batman tonight; even if Dick was feeling up to fighting crime, Alfred has already made it clear he’ll be spending the night resting. 

“Here you go, Master Dick.” Alfred sets a steaming bowl in front of him.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick says, even though the thought of eating anything, even soup, making his stomach flip. He stirs his spoon in the broth and watches a piece of carrot float to the top. Gingerly, he eats a bit. 

Memories blur across reality. Eating soup at the circus when fall began to chill the air. His father frowning at a Campbell’s can he assured Dick he knew how to heat up. Complaining the tomato soup tasted nothing like tomatoes when his nose was blocked from a cold. His mother coaxing him to eat just a little bit more when he’d been laid up for over a week with a bad flu. 

“Dick?” Bruce’s spoon is in his bowl, he’s leaning across the corner of the table, concerned slant to his eyebrows. 

Dick shakes his head to clear the memories but the movement just makes him dizzy. 

“I don’t think I can eat,” he says. 

Bruce’s hand hovers for a moment in the space between them before flattening on the table top, like he’s not sure that reaching out is the right thing to do. “Do you want to go lie back down?” he asks.

Dick stands on trembling legs. Another coughing fit sneaks up on him and he bends over with the force of it. He feels a hand against his shoulder and starts, but it’s just Bruce. 

“Let me,” he says, and picks Dick up. 

Being carried eases the strain on Dick’s lungs but it doesn’t help his tumultuous stomach. “B, I think I’m going to be sick,” he says. 

They’re in the ground floor bathroom near the dining room in seconds. Dick kneels in front of the toilet and throws up for the second time that day. This time though, Bruce is there beside him, comforting him, taking care of him. Tears prickle at Dick’s eyes but this time they aren’t because he wishes his parents were there. Not entirely. 

“Really don’t feel good,” Dick groans. 

“I know, chum,” Bruce says. He rubs Dick’s back when he throws up again and gently pulls his head back when he sags forward.

A cool cloth is wiped across Dick’s face. His eyes flutter shut. The sound of his breathing echoes in his aching head. It’s laboured, whistling slightly with every inhale, and panic strikes just as the invisible vice around his chest seems to tighten even further.

“Can’t breath,” Dick gasps. His chest feels tight and his head fuzzy. 

“Alfred!” Dick hears Bruce call, voice echoing off the tiles. It sounds odd. Tinny, distant. It’s the last things Dick hears before his vision fades.

—

He hears hushed voices, in an abstract sort of way. Like listening through water. Snippets of conversation that don’t make a lot of sense.

“-never seen him so still-“

“-strong lad-“

“-should’ve been faster-“

“-be okay, Master Bruce-“

The voices warp and change. Faces flicker around him. Bruce and Alfred and his mom and dad. His friends, sometimes. 

“Help me,” Dick says to all of them. “Please, I don’t know what’s going on.”

The scene is constantly changing. Flashes of his bedroom in the Manor and his family’s trailer at the circus spliced together by rain-slick streets and choking fires. There is one constant though: he always ends up back in the water. Icy darkness swirling around him. 

Dick thrashes and screams but he can never break the surface. There’s no helping hand to stop him from drowning. Over and over and over.

When Dick wakes properly, dragging himself to consciousness with weights around his limbs, Bruce is standing by the window. He’s staring out at the grounds, frowning at the storm rolling in on heavy black clouds.

“Bruce?” Dick whispers, and his voice is hoarse, giving out halfway through the word.

Bruce turns. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed between one slow blink and the next, leaning over Dick and tenderly brushing his bangs back behind his ear.

“Dick,” he murmurs. “Thank god.”

Dick frowns. Thank god? What does that mean? He tries to get his hands under himself to push himself into a sitting positions, but pain shoots through one and he gasps. There’s an IV in his arm, trailing up to a stand with two clears bag.

“Antibiotics,” Bruce says, noticing his gaze. “And saline for the dehydration.”

Dick scrunches his nose. “Not the flu?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Pneumonia. You’ve been out of it for two days.”

Dick vaguely remembers dinner, being sick. He must have passed out sometime after that. He’s not in the hospital though. They’d probably ask too many questions, want to know about the nearly drowning and why Dick’s body is one giant aching bruise from slamming into the water. The memory is enough to bring a tickle to Dick’s throat and he coughs. It doesn’t hurt as much this time. 

Bruce stands. “I should tell Alfred you’re awake.”

Dick grabs his sleeve. “Wait,” he blurts out. Bruce turns back, patient, curious. “Stay? Please?”

For a second, Dick is sure Bruce is going to say no. Then his face softens and he sits down beside the bed. “Of course.”

—

Dick fiddles with his sleeves while Alfred packs away the IV. Now that he’s lucid they’ve switched him to oral antibiotics. He’s glad, he hates the pull of the IV. Hates the cold liquid through his veins. 

“Is there something on your mind, young sir?” Alfred asks. 

“When d’you think I can be Robin again?” Dick blurts out.

Only a few days without the cape and he misses it already. It doesn’t matter that his breath is still short, that moving too much or too fast makes him cough, that he tires so easily. He doesn’t like Bruce being out there without help. Even though he fought crime for years without Dick, even though he’s more than capable of taking care of himself against Gotham’s criminals, he shouldn’t have to. He _doesn’t_ have to anymore.

“A few more weeks at least,” Alfred says. “It will depend on what Doctor Thompkins says. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow to give you a checkup.”

Dick brightens. He likes Doctor Thompkins. She’s nice and friendly, and she’d been impressed with his recovery from his injuries last time he got hurt. Maybe she’ll let him get back to training quickly.

“Can I interest you in some lunch, Master Dick?” Alfred asks.

Dick smiles. For the first time in days he’s actually hungry. “Sure.”

—

Dick eats the soup and bread Alfred brings him for lunch in bed. Alfred keeps him company and Dick is a little surprised because he must have a hundred things to be doing around the Manor. Instead, he moves Dick’s tray to the nightstand when he’s done then sits in the chair beside the bed, crossing one leg over the other, and opens a book he brought with him.It’s a hardback, the spine creaking when it’s opened, with a bright red cover. 

“Aren’t I a little old to be read to?” Dick asks. He realises that might have come across as rude and flushes. “I mean, surely you have better things to do.”

“Nonsense,” Alfred says. He flicks through the first few pages to the beginning of the story. “Unless you would not like me to read to you?”

Dick’s vision has gone blurry and he blinks back tears. “My mom used to read to me when I was sick,” he says, staring down at the blanket. “It seems like everything these days makes me think of them. I… It’s great here, and you and Bruce are nice, but I miss my mom and dad.”

Alfred lowers the book. “It is perfectly natural to miss your parents. Master Bruce still misses his. Especially, I would think, when he is sick or injured or feeling low.”

Dick nods. The tears aren’t going away so he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. Alfred just wanted to keep him company, he shouldn’t have to deal with Dick’s breakdown. 

“My dear boy, you have nothing to apologise for.” Alfred’s smile is kind. “You have bounced back remarkably from their deaths, but it is normal to still feel their absence. Just remember that you do not have to deal with it alone.”

Dick doesn’t feel very bouncy right now. He feels the opposite of bouncy, like he’s sinking. “I thought I was going to die the other night,” he quietly admits. “I was falling and then the water was so cold and I couldn’t see which way was up and-” 

“And Master Bruce pulled you out,” Alfred says firmly.

“Yeah.”

Alfred is sitting very still and serious. “Dick… Did you want to die?”

Dick shakes his head. “No! I… I was scared, I didn’t think anyone was going to save me.”

Alfred’s posture softens. “Saving people is something Master Bruce has become very good at it.” He nudges Dick’s chin up. “Something you’re getting very good at too.”

Dick sits up on his knees and crawls to the edge of the bed. The chair is close enough that he can throw his arms around Alfred and press his face to the breast of his jacket. There’s a moment, where Alfred is still and shocked, but then he wraps his arms around Dick and hugs him back.

“What was that for?” he asks when Dick pulls back. He looks ruffled for the first time since Dick has been at the Manor.

“Thank you,” Dick says. “For taking care of me.”

Alfred smiles. It makes him look younger. “You are most welcome.”

Dick settles back against the pillows, wiping at his eyes. “You were going to read me a story?”

“Of course.” Alfred clears his throat and begins to read, “The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette.…”

—

“Take a deep breath,” Doctor Thompkins says. Her stethoscope is cool against Dick’s skin as he breathes in. He can’t repress a shiver.

“Sorry,” Doctor Thompkins says. She pulls the stethoscope away and smiles at Dick. “Good news, your lungs sound much better. But I want you resting for another two weeks before you go back to exercising, and then only light physical activity. No swinging from rooftops for another month at least.”

Dick sighs. A month? It’ll be the longest month of his life. “Yes, Doctor Thompkins.”

“You still don’t know why he got so sick so fast?” Bruce asks. 

“His immune system was probably already compromised, and I’m sure nearly drowning didn’t help. Has he been getting enough sleep? Eating well?” 

Bruce frowns. Leslie packs away her stethoscope and pulls out a piece of paper instead. “I’m prescribing another round of antibiotics, if his symptoms persist after that call me.”

“I’m right here,” Dick grumbles. They don’t need to talk about him like he isn’t.

Bruce ruffles his hair, gently, like Dick is made of glass. It makes Dick frown. It’s not like this is the first time he’s been sick since moving into the Manor, he doesn’t understand why everyone is hovering so much this time. Sure, maybe he feels more exhausted than he’s ever felt before. And maybe pneumonia is a little more serious than the common cold. But he’s okay isn’t he?

“Thank you, Leslie,” Bruce says. He takes the prescription and puts it in his pocket. “I’ll show you out.”

“Thank you, Doctor Thompkins,” Dick echoes. He flops back against the couch as soon as they’re gone from the room. At least he’s no longer on bed rest. That had been excruciating, even though he hadn’t had the energy to go much farther than the bathroom. Even that had been draining sometimes.

Looney Toons is playing on the TV and Dick watches idly as the the roadrunner outsmarts the coyote once again. Ads have moved into an episode of Tom and Jerry by the time Bruce returns. He leans against the back of the couch, glancing at the TV before looking down at Dick.

“Dick…” Bruce frowns, gaze turning back toward the television. He’s not really watching it though. “You can always come to me, if you need something, or if something is bothering you.”

Dick sits up. “Did Alfred say something to you?”

“Should he have?”

“No,” Dick says quickly. 

Bruce looks at Dick like he’s looking for clues. Then he nods. “Okay,” he says. He circles the couch and sits down beside Dick. “What are we watching?”

Bruce must have work he needs to do, things in the Cave he wants to attend to, but he sits there for over an hour watching cartoons. Dick starts sitting beside him, then shifts so his head is on Bruce’s shoulder, then he slides down even further so he’s lying with his head on Bruce’s thigh. Bruce doesn’t say anything, he just plays with Dick’s hair and chuckles as Bugs Bunny calls Elmer Fudd nimrod. 

—

This one is different. He’s drowning but it’s not dark. He’s near the surface of the water, an invisible barrier between oxygen and death, ice or glass or something. Dick bangs against it but it doesn’t budge. Nobody comes to rescue him. 

The water is a funny colour, swirling with pinks and browns. Dick’s strength wanes, he sinks down. A hand reaches out for him and he grasps it weakly, hope blossoming.

And then he screams, soundless, water gurgling. Bruce’s lifeless eyes stare back at him. Dick tries to push away and comes face-to-face with his parents corpses instead. His struggles grow weaker. He’s going to drown. He’s really going to drown and nobody is going to save him because they’re already dead.

Dick wakes gasping and crying. His lungs protest and he coughs, ribs aching after days of coughing, coughing, coughing. He’s sick of coughing. He’s sick of these dreams. 

Dick slides out of bed, leaving his dark room behind, and quietly enters another a few doors down. 

“Bruce?” Dick whispers. He’s hesitant to poke at his sleeping mentor so he tugs on the covers instead. “Bruce? Are you awake?”

Bruce grunts and rolls over. He sounds mostly asleep still when he asks, “Dick? Wha’s wrong?”

Dick shifts, feet cold on the wooden floorboards. He should’ve grabbed socks before he left his room. But he hadn’t really been thinking, just acting.

“I had a nightmare,” he says. Tears are still rolling down his cheeks, he rubs them away with the sleeve of his top.

Bruce blinks at him through the dark and Dick’s heart starts to sink. He shouldn’t have woken Bruce up. He should’ve just suffered through it, tried to go back to sleep. Bruce has been around more, they’ve been growing closer, but that doesn’t mean he wants to deal with all Dick’s problems. And it was just a stupid nightmare…

Bruce lifts the bedcovers. Dick crawls in quickly, before he has a chance to second-guess himself again. 

“It’s alright,” Bruce says. Dick presses close and Bruce hugs him. “It was just a dream.”

“It feels like I’m drowning,” Dick whispers. If he whispers, maybe the memories won’t rise up to drag him down. “Over and over again, every time I think I’m close to the surface I get pulled back under.”

Bruce’s arms tighten around him. “In the dream?”

“Yeah.” Dick rubs at his eyes, brushing away tears. “And when I’m awake, sometimes.” Bruce is completely still.“After the other night… I can’t stop thinking of my parents, their deaths. Sometimes it hurts so much I feel like I’m paralysed… Is there something wrong with me?”

“No.” Bruce cradles Dick’s head, kisses the top of his hair. “No, Dickie, there’s nothing wrong with you. It’s normal to... to miss your parents, to get caught up in things that make you think of them, especially after traumatic experiences.”

“But it gets better?”

“Yes.” Bruce pauses and his voice is softer when he continues, “Yes, it gets better.”

Dick doesn’t think he’ll get back to sleep, but he does, that promise ringing in his ears. And when he wakes up in the morning the world feels a little lighter, a little more in balance. Bruce’s arm is still over him, ready to catch Dick if he starts to drown.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


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